Life With A Werewolf

Voice From The Dead Part 2 - Old Stomping Grounds

          Death is one of those things that stops your entire world and starts it again. Everything slows down and speeds up at once. Its as if the entire world spins around you, and you’re standing in the middle like a spindle on a record player, staring at it wondering how you’re going to break back into that again. How you’re going to move on and live without that special person. It especially sucks when that person was someone who had hurt you in the past. A special person who meant so much, but has done so much damage, that years later you’re still not sure how to process it.
          My brain likes to assign blame. It’s one of my little secrets. I like my world controlled, and assigning blame is a way to control it. So, in the past when something similar occurred to me, I couldn’t help but wonder in the back of my mind exactly how much blame should I get because of their death. That if perhaps we’d had been able to patch things up, maybe they wouldn’t have been distracted. Maybe they would have been sharper or calmer. Perhaps everything would have worked out better? How much am I really to blame for their betrayal? How much am I to blame for their demise?
          When you’re going through something like this, people love to tell you ‘I know what you’re going through’, as if it’s comforting to you. Misery loves company after all, and misery shared is a burden lightened, I suppose. But the thing about grief is that you only know your grief. You don’t understand someone else’s regardless of how many times you’ve been through it. Grief and mourning are very individualistic. I cringe every time those words are spoken: “I know what you’re going through.” Seriously, if you’re going to tell me that, just tell me “thoughts and prayers” instead.
          Thankfully, Elouise didn’t say that when Crash told her we’re going away for a few days. “Like hell you’re leavin me here to watch the swamp,” she snarled. “I’m comin.” The way her hand was cocked on her hip, her short hair held back in that bandana. She had been cleaning her house when I knocked on the door to ask her to watch the place. I could tell from the look on her face that no human, no werewolf for that matter, was going to hold her back.

          Kris, Sean, and Zack were all riding together. Elouise was going to drive herself up. Three vehicles heading north, into unknown territory for must of us. But a location that Crash seemed to know like the back of his hand. He didn’t even bother to GPS it.
          The trip took far longer than it should have, but I think that’s mostly because Crash wasn’t mentally or emotionally prepared for what was coming. By the time we finally got to the outskirts of a small mountain town somewhat near Canada, Crash made a phone call. “I’m in the area,” he said after the other person picked up. “Just send me the pin where the grave is.”
          After that, there was some snarling. Then shouting. Then Crash began to growl, and I grabbed his arm to remind him that we’re in public. After all, some ancient gas station on the side of a forgotten highway is at eight in the evening is not the time and place to begin sprouting fur, which he was very close to doing. “Public,” is all I said. “Don’t forget, public.”
          He looked at me, snarled again, then kept talking. The conversation, which I didn’t hear a lot of, seemed to be going a little something like this: Crash wanted to just visit the grave, pay his respects, get a hotel room, then head back. The voice on the other end demanded to Crash that he come by, and bring everyone. Which he emphatically did not want to do, but somehow the voice on the other end was able to get him to cave eventually. Which, without saying everyone but Elouise knew what that meant: we were all going to see the Rodriguez family.
          Crash won’t tell us what happened. What they did to him or why he stopped talking to them. The only things I was able to pull out of it was that A) Roam was terribly sorry for how everything went down, and B) If given the chance, he would have made the exact same choices all over again, to hell with the consequences. Which seemed to be the crux of Crash’s anger.
          I know I don’t talk about my military experience much in this. I’m not about to start now. What I will say is this: that every time I was given a mission in the military more complicated than “go sweep the motorpool” we would be given detailed plans on how to accomplish the objective, what it was, things like that. We were never tricked into doing any sort of mission and there was no ‘because I said so’ type orders. So, if that’s what happened to Crash, it’s somewhat reasonable why he’d still be upset. But if you ever ask Roam about it, all you’ll get is “it’s not my story to tell.”
          The convoy of vehicles twisted around a couple more mountainous roads until we dipped down into a valley of sorts. Trees pressed all around the road ways, making every twist and turn a bit more exciting than I would have liked after hour six of a four hour drive. Taking a gravel path, we rolled down winding our way through the trees until we arrived at what can only be described as a compound. A fence cut through the trees of the dense forest in both directions. Barbed wire topped it, with cameras set up every fifteen feet in what they believed to be innocuous locations. There was a cattle gate of sorts with more barbed wire. The gate was open, and closed behind us after all the vehicles rolled through it.
          The land was cleared for the most part. In the back was more trees. Elouise took two big sniffs and asked Crash how many cattle they had. To which he said, “I don’t know. At least a dozen. Two bulls, and smells like at least ten heifers between them.”
          I looked back at Elouise and we both said at the same time “show off.”
          The house stood towards the back. Well, one house did. There was another house that was just as big on the other side of the property it seems. That one had crops growing beside it of some kind. Since I’m not the kind of guy who can tell a corn plant from a tomato plant, I do know they were green, short and not weed. That’s all I can tell you.
          A man came out from behind the house, wearing a fedora, and had a rope tied to the side of his hip like a whip. He had a goatee, a smile, and a familiar mediteranian complexion. “Roam,” I said with a smile. “Or should I say, Indy!”
          He laughed, and gave me a hand shake that he pulled into a hug. “Not today,” he said. “This is just a rope, not a whip.”
          “Close enough,” I grinned. “Where’s the rest of your pack?”
          “Strays went into town,” he said. “Tanika is inside working on dinner and handling security.”
          “Security,” I said sarcastically, “I didn’t notice a thing coming in here. Very inconspicuous operation you got. I guess guard towers would have been over the line?”
          Roam smiled. “Who needs guard towers when you have cameras and guns? Come, let me show you inside.”
          Elouise pulled me back for a moment. “Hey,” she said, “You never told me Crash was involved in all of this.”
          “He was at one point,” I said. “He’s done with whatever they do here.”
          She pulled me inside her car and shut the door. Then she started the engine, and began playing the radio. It was some pop song on station, with bright colorful choruses and catchy beats designed to be sung in stadiums. “I think we can talk,” she half whispered. “Is he involved in what I think he is?”
          “His ex-girlfriend, the one we’re here to pay respects to, was. He wants to go to the grave site, pay respects, and leave.”
          Elouise looked around for a moment, and gritted her teeth. “I’m all for leaving as soon as possible.”
          “What’s got you so upset? We just see a stone in the ground, he cries, we go home.”
          She pointed, at the house. “Cause we’re not here to see a grave. We’re being thrown into something. I can tell. Crash may have a blind spot cause they helped raise him or whatever, but something else is happening here. I don’t like it.”
          I gritted my teeth and looked out the window. She’d said everything out loud. Everything I’d been thinking. “Well, two things, first don’t forget they’re werewolves so we can’t like this anywhere else, and two, right now we’re two weirdos listening to your favorite song after everyone else has gone inside after a six hour trip.”
          “I still don’t like it,” she snarled.
          “Me either,” I sighed, “me either.” Then I opened the door and and followed everyone else into the house.